


Lord grant me patience

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is just an idiot, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 13:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21458485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: In which Aziraphale has no idea what to do about a particularly affectionate bookshop customer, and Crowley steps in to help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 523





	Lord grant me patience

It had all started with the gift.

Crowley breezed into the bookshop with a cheery tinkling of the bell, arms wrapped around a plain white box from Aziraphale’s favourite patisserie. His eyes were drawn to the far corner the moment he was across the threshold, where he’d immediately noticed something out of place on the shop counter. Out of instinct, his body tensed, fingers clutching a little tighter around the box of macarons he’d diligently transported halfway across London. Settled innocently on the wooden surface was a flat rectangular parcel, neatly wrapped and fastened with a brown satin ribbon. A short breath escaped Crowley’s lips once the reptilian part of his brain registered that there wasn't any actual threat. Nothing to see here, just a small, mysterious box. The tension uncoiled from his muscles as he cantered across the shop floor to investigate.

"Is that you, dear?" came Aziraphale's voice from the backroom.

"Mmhmm," he replied, setting his own box down next to the parcel.

Crowley leaned over the counter, framing the object between his hands. There was a little card nestled in the ribbon, and he brushed the satin out of the way. The word 'Ezra' had been scratched neatly into the off-white card with a blue pen.

"Goodness, did you go all the way to Sainte Anne's?"

He hadn't noticed Aziraphale approaching, and startled a little at the voice, now suddenly at his side.

"You needn't have gone to all the trouble!"

An arm slid around the demon's shoulders and pulled him in for a swift kiss, before Aziraphale was at the box of macarons, happily casting his gaze over the colourful selection.

"What's this?" Crowley asked with a lopsided smile, nudging the gift box with a finger.

Aziraphale's sunny expression twisted into something Crowley decided was 'polite disgust'.

"Oh. A thank-you from a customer, Mr Ferguson. Chocolates, he said."

"Ooh," Crowley responded, tugging at the ribbons.

"Wouldn't get your hopes up, looks like it's just from the supermarket."

Crowley freed the box from the confines of the satin ribbon, and lifted the lid to reveal a selection of confectionery smothered in a variety of shades of chocolate. Nothing overly fancy, but nothing immediately offensive.

"And what inspired this act of generosity?" he asked.

"I helped him track down some books. He comes in quite regularly, seems to rather enjoy giving gifts. I don't know how many nieces and nephews he's bought books for."

Crowley popped a praline in his mouth as the words percolated through his brain. Aziraphale hated customers. Actively dissuaded them, in fact. He'd seen the angel in action, and while it amused Crowley to no end, his methods were typically quite effective on humans.

"So, this chap," he said around the sweet in his mouth, "comes in here, on  _ multiple _ occasions, looking for expensive books to give to an indeterminate number of relatives?"

Aziraphale plucked a lavender-coloured macaron from the box and inspected it thoughtfully before taking a bite.

"Yes, it sounds like he's got a very well-read family."

Crowley stared at him quietly and swallowed the chocolate.

"What? No. Please tell me you understand he's not actually buying them for anyone."

Aziraphale's brow scrunched up like it did when he was pondering over a crossword puzzle.

"Angel, he  _ likes _ you."

"Of course he likes me, why else would he come to the shop?"

Crowley raked a hand down his face in fond exasperation.

"Someone help me, you aren't half stupid at times. I'm saying you have an  _ admirer _ , angel."

Aziraphale went round-eyed, not unlike a celestial deer caught in the headlights. Crowley tried not to laugh as his chest swelled up with affection like a balloon.

"W-what? No no no, that's simply preposterous. He's just a very… appreciative customer."

"He certainly is," Crowley replied with a smirk.

Aziraphale huffed, throwing his hands up theatrically.

"That's ridiculous, Crowley, I've done nothing to indicate I'd be interested…  _ in that way _ ."

He thought this over. Knowing how hard the angel tried to prevent repeat customers, this man sounded fairly obstinate.

"I'm not sure that matters to him."

"No, it doesn't matter," Aziraphale said hotly, "because you're wrong. He's just a generous, and quite… persistent customer. Not everyone has an ulterior motive."

Crowley knew better than to continue poking at this point, and popped another chocolate into his mouth.

* * *

The next time it happened, Crowley had just returned from watering the plants in his flat. Aziraphale was standing behind the counter holding a brown paper bag, his nervous hands crumpling it absentmindedly. His head whipped towards the door with a start.

"Crowley," he chirped with an unsure smile.

"...angel?" Crowley asked cautiously.

A tentative laugh wobbled out of him.

"Mr Ferguson came back," he said, holding up the bag.

Crowley sidled up to the wooden countertop, draping himself over it with obnoxious satisfaction.

"Did he now," he said, smirking.

"He wanted a book for his niece's birthday."

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line and looked Crowley square in the eyes.

"There is no niece, is there?" he asked.

"Well, not one who's desperate for an antique book for her birthday, anyway," Crowley replied.

He poked a finger into the opening of the bag and peeked inside, finding two large scones, wedged together like eggs in a nest. He wrinkled his nose.

"Hmm, bit of a bland effort."

"What?" Aziraphale asked, furrowing his brow.

"Oh, just grading his attempt at winning you over," Crowley replied, prodding his forearm playfully. "I'm something of an expert at courting angels with offerings of food, you see."

"I suppose you'll be wanting to gloat now," Aziraphale said.

"Gloating's tacky, angel," Crowley replied. "I'm simply going to let this smug grin do the talking."

Aziraphale let out a frustrated groan.

"Oh, what do I  _ do _ ? I'm certain I've been making it clear I'm not interested."

Something in the tone of Aziraphale's voice cut through all the bravado and tugged at his heart, softening his smirk into a genuine smile. 

"You're probably just being too nice," Crowley said gently.

"Of course I'm being nice," he replied tartly. "I'm an angel, Crowley, it's what I do."

Aziraphale unceremoniously dumped the bag of scones into the bin under the counter. Crowley cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh, don't give me that, they were dreadfully stale. Couldn't even give them away."

Deciding he needed something for his hands to do, Aziraphale picked up a pile of books from the countertop and took them to a nearby shelf, sorting them by a logic known only to himself.

Crowley pondered over their conversation, turning the words over and over in his head. Aziraphale was clearly distressed about the situation, and that made something hot and primal run down his spine.

"You're right, Aziraphale, you  _ are _ nice," he said slowly, pulling away from the counter to stand upright.

The angel's hands stilled and he turned his head to look over his shoulder, pursing his lips.

"What?" Crowley asked pretending to be taken aback.

"I know that look. It used to mean I had to go and thwart something."

A smile carved its way across Crowley's face, hand tingling with a devious twitch.

"I'm just pointing out that being nice might not be so helpful in this situation. And perhaps you need someone who is… Not Nice to step in."

With an irate sigh, Aziraphale turned back to the bookshelf.

"I'll not have you tormenting Mr Ferguson," he said.

"Not torment,  _ deter _ . I mean, don't get me wrong, your technique for making customers uncomfortable is impressive. But you clearly need something a bit… stronger." His smile curved into something more devilish. " And I just so happen to have a skillset that might be of some use."

"My dear, I'm sure I can handle this without the need for your particular brand of interference."

But the gears of his demonic imagination had already whirred to life, sending an itch prickling up his fingertips. He watched Aziraphale rearranging his books as the ideas began running away from him.

"How would you feel about locusts in the shop?"

Aziraphale's head turned sharply and he fixed the demon with an admonishing glare.

"No plagues, Crowley."

He sighed, pouring cold water over the burning urge that had taken him over, and the itch subsided.

"Fine."

He continued to watch the angel pottering away, and found himself filling instead with something gentler, warmer.

“Come on, I’ll take you to lunch. Make up for those awful scones.”

* * *

A week later, Crowley was sprawled out on a chair next to a window in the bookshop, basking in the sun and lazily flipping through his phone. Aziraphale had needed to run to the post office to pick up a delivery of some rare manuscript, the details of which Crowley had not been interested enough to remember. He had, in desperation, left the demon in charge of the shop, under strict orders to simply make sure no one bought anything.

The bell above the door jingled, heralding the arrival of an intrepid - if perhaps clueless - human, and was followed by some very determined-sounding footsteps.

"Ah, hello?" came a voice.

Crowley looked up from his phone to see a middle-aged man with sand-coloured hair standing between a pair of bookshelves. He was staring at Crowley with the same sort of expression one might wear after sitting in some gum on a park bench.

"Hello,” Crowley replied in a bored drawl.

The man's eyes darted around the shop for a few seconds before they landed back on the demon.

"I… erm, do you work here?"

Crowley considered how he wanted to answer that.

"More of a volunteer."

The man chewed on the inside his cheek, nervous apprehension rolling off of him in waves. He would have been a prime target for a good Temptation, had Crowley still been in that line of work.

"I'm looking for Ezra."

The name hit Crowley round the head like a cricket bat, knocking him upright with an unpleasant jolt.

_ Mr Ferguson, I presume... _

Heat began bristling under his skin as he sat up further in his chair, carefully curling his fingers over the armrests.

"He's out at the moment I'm afraid."

"Oh right, I see. Do you know when he'll be back?"

Something was worming its way through Crowley's chest, twisting around the fibers of his occult core. He took a breath and evened out the edges of his voice before he spoke.

"Dunno, he went out on an errand. Might be 5 minutes, might be 3 hours. That Ezra is an inscrutable man."

Mr Ferguson looked somewhat crestfallen, and it only stoked the flames in his chest.

"Alright, it's just that… well, I was going to ask him if he wanted to join me for lunch. Do you think he'll be back in time for that?"

All of Crowley's demonic faculties were now pointedly fixed on the man in front of him. It appeared that an opportunity to play a game had dropped itself in his lap. Of course, the obvious move was to simply say that Aziraphale already had a lunch date with  _ him _ , and in fact had a standing appointment for lunch with him for the rest of eternity. But that had all the elegance of a dog pissing on the carpet to mark its favourite spot. He was better than that.

"Oh, I should think so," he mused. "But… well, should probably just get yourselves something light - need room for later, don't we?"

Mr Ferguson narrowed his eyes just a fraction.

"I beg your pardon?"

Crowley resisted the urge to smile, not quite sure he could hold back the fangs if he did.

"I mean," he continued, pushing himself out of the seat, "you  _ are _ going to be involved with proceedings later, I assume?"

The man opened and shut his mouth a few times before he was able to form a sentence.

"I don't… know?"

Crowley slithered forward slowly. By now, the infernal urge for chaos was crackling beneath his skin.

"Isn't that what you've been discussing with Ezra all this time?" Crowley hated the way the fake name stuck to his tongue. "Your participation in the, er, ritual?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ah! Yes, yes, of course," Crowley said slyly, tapping the side of his nose a few times. "But just between us, you  _ are _ the one picking up the goat from the butchers?"

Mr Ferguson had been growing increasingly more horrified-looking and was now clutching at his coat. The hellfire was singing through Crowley's veins at this point.

“Goat?” the frightened human stammered out.

“Can’t very well have the ceremony without a goat’s heart, can we?” Crowley asked, cocking his head to the side.

"I don't… this is a bookshop, I come here to buy books," Mr Ferguson said shakily.

The sky outside, up until now bright and sunny, darkened very suddenly as sinister black clouds rolled in out of nowhere, seeming to circle round a very specific area of Soho.

"Yes, of course. Just a bookshop," Crowley said as innocently as he could muster.

He tilted his head slightly and felt a cheap thrill when Mr Ferguson caught sight of the snake sigil on the side of his face.

"Lovely man like Ezra would never get himself involved in something so… demonic."

At that point, the entire shop flooded with the too-white flash of lightning, and it may have briefly looked as though the floor and walls were covered in all manner of runes and symbols. A rumble of thunder reverberated through the building. Crowley managed to bite back a laugh. A bit overkill perhaps, but he’d always enjoyed a bit of dramatic flare.

Mr Ferguson, white as a sheet, was trembling like a cornered mouse. Crowley thought he might have frozen to the spot until he finally backed away shaking his head.

"I… think I need to be going… please let Ezra know-- um, actually, don't mention I came."

He scurried out of the shop and disappeared into the bustling streets of London. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to the door as the grim sky miraculously cleared to its previously sunny disposition. He allowed himself a full, toothy smile as he pondered on the unpredictability of the British weather.

* * *

"What?!"

Aziraphale's fork clattered against the plate in front of him, causing a few heads to turn towards their table in the corner of the small cafe. Crowley hid his delighted smile by taking a sip of his coffee.

"Let me make sure I understand," Aziraphale said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You told him that I run some kind of... Satanic cult out of the back of the bookshop?"

Crowley set the coffee cup down on the table and propped himself on his elbow, chin resting on the back of his hand.

"Well, not in so many words. He may have… inferred that you wanted him to take part in some kind of ritualistic goat-heart-eating ceremony."

"Oh, for goodness sake--!"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

Aziraphale glared at him, his eyes such an intense shade of blue that Crowley almost felt like they might pierce through his sunglasses. 

"Perhaps wait for me to return, let me decline lunch and politely explain that I'm not interested?"

The demon leaned back in his chair.

"You know, that never once crossed my mind."

"Shocking."

"Still," Crowley said, slouching further in his seat, the wooden frame creaking in protest. "Got the job done, didn't it?"

Aziraphale looked as though he was going to say something scolding, but he instead deflated with a tired sigh.

"I suppose it's no more ridiculous than any of the other rumours already circulating about me."

The two of them sat in silence for a short while, Aziraphale finishing up the cake on his plate, Crowley fiddling with his coffee cup. A thought had been gnawing at him for a while now, swirling around his head like the dark liquid in his mug.

"So, were you  _ that _ oblivious about how I felt all those centuries?"

Aziraphale lifted his gaze from the plate in front of him, brow furrowed. After a second, his face softened and he looked almost apologetic.

"Well not really, I was aware that you cared a great deal." He smiled wryly. "You weren't exactly subtle most of the time, dear boy."

Crowley gave a huff of laughter, but really couldn’t argue with that.

"I suppose it was more that I was terrified of what would happen if we didn't keep each other at arm's length. The consequences, I mean."

Crowley winced as the memory of Gabriel coldly sending Aziraphale to his death materialised before him.

"But we got there in the end, didn't we?" Aziraphale said. He was smiling, and it was nothing but warmth and light and Crowley wanted to bask in it forever.

"Like I said," Crowley replied with a smirk he hoped covered over the crack in his voice. "I'm an expert at courting angels with food."

Aziraphale wiggled slightly in his chair, smiling primly.

"Or perhaps, my dear," he said as he leaned forward, "I'm an expert at courting demons into  _ getting _ me food."

The angel’s smile transformed into a smug little grin as Crowley’s eyebrows rose above his glasses.

"You cheeky bastard."

"Just enough of one to be worth knowing, so I've been told."

Crowley felt his heart burst open, and made a mental note to buy the angel the cheapest box of chocolates he could find.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is so dumb, but I'm still trying to get comfortable with writing and I also love all the ineffable fluff.
> 
> As always, come and say hi to me on Tumblr at heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com (GO sideblog) or squidsticks.tumblr.com (main blog).


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